


Eternity

by justsleepwalkin



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-30
Updated: 2011-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-28 12:12:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justsleepwalkin/pseuds/justsleepwalkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Jack Sparrow had become the new captain of the Flying Dutchman?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eternity

**Author's Note:**

> Kind of incomplete, but the likelihood of me ever finishing it is rare.
> 
> Jack's part jellyfish.

The waves had once been alluring. He had once enjoyed being surrounded by water, only the horizon to look forward to; the greatest treasure of all. He strived for freedom at every turn of his life, thought he even had it, but he knows now that it was just a hoax. He didn’t find freedom; instead, he caged himself on this ship, doomed to sail the sea for eternity.

He understood Davy Jones a bit more now, after all this time.

It’s raining. It seemed no matter where he was, it rained. Like bad weather followed him, or maybe he still unconsciously followed it. After all, Jack Sparrow was supposed to be finding the dying and ferry on their souls.

He hadn’t done that job in too long, and his appearance showed his failure. Didn’t have a face for tentacles; instead they trailed down from a bubbly bell on his head, tangling all around his body. His face sagged in odd places, like it was constantly trying to crawl away from his waste. Hardly recognizable anymore… He thinks it’s better that way.

Wind howls around him, but he knows better, and he shakes his head, skulking down besides a mast, tugging his oily hat over his eyes. It isn’t the wind, it’s souls. An overflow from the Locker, seeking him out and gliding at the sides of the _Dutchman_ , clawing their way up the dying wood, trying to get at his heartless self and shred what’s left of his own soul. He doesn’t blame them. Part of him wishes he could fix this, yet he doesn’t even try.

It’s just him now, at least. He’s rid himself of a crew, simply resting dead in the water, only moving when the waves groan beneath his weight and push him along, sick of his presence. The souls push and tug, too. They beg and hate him, and he agrees, asking for the same things that they want. Peace. Solitude. Slumber.

He doesn’t return to land anymore. Early in his servitude he would toast to salty wenches, spend his whole day drinking rum and laughing, sometimes sending a glimmer of a glance towards familiar faces. Far as he knew, they were all dead now, and the rum, the wenches… he didn’t much care.

He once thought what would happen if he sank beneath the waves, see how long it took for the pieces to break apart and leave him floating through the ocean like the _creature_ he had became. But being deep below made him queasy, and he gave up all attempts.

The _Flying Dutchman_ shakes around him. He glares up at its sails and pushes to his feet with a scowl. The ship has no personality, no voice. He once made an effort to shape it; give it life, but it was long since dead after the grueling torture of Jones’ command. Jack made it no better. This wasn’t, and would never, ever be like his precious _Black Pearl_. He gave her up to be immortal. Now what did he have? Where were the charms of immortality?

He had nothing but a crumbled dignity.

The distance holds a ship; this hardly surprises Jack. Even without a crew, without Jack navigating, the _Dutchman_ still draws them near the dead and dying. “They’re on their own,” he drawls, staggering to the ship’s edge. The barnacles that cling to his legs brush against the wood roughly. He grits his teeth.

The waves lap against his ship and disappear into wisps. The _Dutchman_ ghosts along as if with a purpose, which Jack hardly understands. Slimy hands grip the railing; they slip and leave a trail of stickiness. He bites out, “Stop it. Why make the effort? You haven’t in decades, what’s changed?” As if the ship would listen to him. They continue along and he sighs. He’s sure he won’t care what they find; likely beaten and broken sailors, sobbing against the weight of the storm – one that hardly effects Jack’s own ship.

He won’t help them, though. Every sailor knows that all they have to fear is darkness. Emptiness. They know that there is no “Jack Sparrow’s Locker.” They know not to expect anything.

The approach slows down, and Jack can make out the lines of the ship, and he frowns at realizing that it’s intact, holding up against the storm well enough. Then he begins to wonder if his mind has finally walked off and locked itself away with his heart: he sees black sails. The image suffocates him. It draws out dormant memories that should have been put away right with his heart, but a glance towards his quarters and he knows his heart is close enough by. He never let it out of his sight.

His _Pearl_ is dead, he reminds himself. He has no proof, but when he asked about her the last time he made port, there had been nothing. She was gone. And this… _this_ ship was either some cheap replica, or an illusion. His mind messing with him. Yet the _Dutchman_ glides alongside, and Jack sees only one man standing on deck, so easily recognizable as if he hadn’t aged a day: Barbossa.

Jack backs away from the edge now, bidding his mind to focus. To fight away the image of Barbossa standing there, watching him with ease, the rain drowning his body but not caring. The captain cranes his head up a notch towards Jack, and all Jack does in return is damn him.

“It’s been a long time, Sparrow,” Barbossa calls over the rain and wind, the moaning souls – although only Jack hears those.

Jack isn’t sure how Barbossa can even recognize him, and wonders if it’s only the _Dutchman_ that looks similar to the old days. Jack has pieces of wood solidified into his jacket on one side, fish scales scattered along another. He supposes his outlandish appearance makes who he is obvious enough.

Except Barbossa should be dead by now, and Jack’s mind returns to the idea that this is only an illusion, his last laugh of sanity breaking down to the souls below that are simply _waiting_ for a good taste. He turns away, tentacles skirting across the deck, dragging bits of broken shells along with them.

“You’re not imagining things, Jack,” Barbossa’s voice rings louder, but patient.

Angrily, Jack looks back at him, his body tense, and he can feel small stings from his own body reacting. Small bites from the tentacles. He’s grown used to it, most of the time. “You’re dead. Even if you could be alive, you’d be old. Crippled. _Hardly_ much of a pirate.”

“The Fountain of Youth exists,” is all Barbossa answers with, and if there were any color left to Jack’s features, it would have drained away with all his anger, all his fight. Barbossa ambles closer, and Jack can’t move to further distance himself. “Why don’t you come aboard, lad. Your old girl has been missing you dearly. She can tow the _Dutchman_. Get away from this storm,” he looks up at the sky with disdain.

Jack doesn’t want to agree, but even if he takes to the helm, he knows that he can’t make the _Dutchman_ do a damn thing. It’s set on where it is, and the longer Jack stares at the _Pearl_ , the harder it becomes for him to deny her allure. When he graces her deck, he hears her soothing hum, easing his muscles, relaxing him.

Barbossa is on his own as much as Jack; he sets up the tow, sets a course, and locks the wheel in place. Jack stays in the rain, pleasantly finding that the _Pearl_ ’s softness blocks out the sounds of the souls that plague the _Dutchman_.

He startles when Barbossa moves towards him, reaching out for a shoulder, and Jack slides away with narrow eyes. “Don’t touch me,” he rasps and Barbossa’s hand falls away. Instead, he nods towards the cabin, and turns his way towards it. Jack follows, meeting a dim yellow light within and a bit of warmth that Jack can’t find on the _Dutchman_. There are far too many breaks and holes in its wood now; he hasn’t bothered to repair them.

“Immortal or not, you should be taking better care,” Barbossa growls at him, hanging his hat and discarding his waterlogged coat. He eyes Jack carefully; a thoughtful look crosses his face, and Jack wonders if he wants to reach out again.

“Don’t,” Jack warns just in case, “Really, Barbossa, you wouldn’t want to.” It’s for the other’s own safety, after all. Jack can still feel the sting of his tentacles, dancing from head to toe. There’s hardly room for a hand to lie without feeling the pain.

Barbossa sighs and takes a seat at his desk, reaching behind him to pull out rum and two glasses and setting them atop the surface. He uncorks the bottle and stares at Jack. “How long?”

Jack wants to act as though he doesn’t know what Barbossa is talking about; he wants to leave the warmth of his old ship and return to his damnation, but he doesn’t move. He replies, “I’ve lost count,” and plucks at a fish scale, gaze flickering to the rum laid out on the tabletop.

“Drink, lad. Bet you’ve lost count on your last swig, too.”

Jack remains planted. “I should –”

“What? Get back to your self-pity? I don’t think so.” Barbossa raises his own glass.

Finally, Jack moves and takes a seat across from him, cradling the other glass between his two hands because he can’t keep a firm grip to it in any other way. “How long have you been without a crew?” he shoots back.

Barbossa grins, taking a large gulp of the alcohol. “I’ve lost count,” he repeats Jack’s words.

“Didn’t share the fountain’s splendors even a little?” Jack sneers.

“You make it sound as though getting there was an easy task.” Barbossa fills himself another glass, glaring Jack’s way. “Everyone died. Fountain of Youth or not, it can’t resurrect an already dead body.”

“Everyone?” Jack echoes.

Barbossa toasts to the empty air. “If you had been doing your job, you would’ve known.”

Jack’s glass squelches free and shatters. It’s almost _too_ silent here, the _Pearl_ ’s safety aside. He stands, ignoring the fallen glass and the liquor lost and stumbles for the exit so that he can hear the wails of souls, desperate to know if his former crew still clings to the _Black Pearl_ ’s hull. The rain is a harsh refresher that this isn’t his ship anymore, isn’t his life. He chokes on the coolness washing away the warmth and he stands at the starboard side, eyes fixated on the abyss he cursed himself with.

There are too many souls to keep track of. Even if his former crew had still been nearby, they were swept away under the masses. In the back of his mind he had always hoped that they hadn’t died at sea, but they were _pirates_ , of course they bloody died at sea! He did this to them. Left them in their torment, and he didn’t even consider until now that it was the reality of it all.

Suddenly he’s far too glad that his heart is locked away on a ship behind him. Still, it’s too close. He wants to sever the link between the two ships and find out what happens if he leaves the _Dutchman_ and his heart far, far away.

There was a reason Jones buried his own heart.

“You can still change this, Jack.”

“It’s too late.” Jack wonders how long Barbossa has been watching him shudder under his panic.

Barbossa snorts. “When did you give up so easily?”

“A long time ago, Barbossa. This,” he waves dismissively in front of him, “can’t go away.”

“So instead of trying, you’ll waste away in the shadow of the _Dutchman_.”

“Until I become one with it.” He’s surprised it hasn’t happened yet. He expects to wake up one day and find that the planks have engulfed him. Maybe when the ship stops believing in its purpose, then they would sink away from this world.


End file.
